


Taking Care of Business

by MangoMartini



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Banter, Bottom Napoleon, Canon Compliant, M/M, Missing Scene, Top Illya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-18 18:30:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4716221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MangoMartini/pseuds/MangoMartini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“That is a good plan,” Illya admits, as if he can’t quite believe those words just left his mouth directed at that American. He lowers his gun. “I could kiss you, Cowboy.”</p><p>And he knows it’s an expression, one he’s not exactly sure how Illya picked up. And he knows the law back home, and what trouble someone like him could get in doing something like this with someone who wasn’t down. But he also knows his own silver tongue, and if he could talk his way out of his own death, Napoleon Solo could talk his way out of this.</p><p>“You could, you know.” </p><p>  <em>Or, what happened between Illya trashing his hotel room and the two of them chilling on the balcony.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking Care of Business

**Author's Note:**

> So I've only seen this movie once but I am in love with it and in love with these two together, so here is my humble contribution to the fandom.

The tension in the room is palpable.

Napoleon looks down at his suitcase—immaculately packed to prevent wrinkles—and sees the gun. He doesn’t want to have to use it, but Illya is shaking like a shack in a storm and Napoleon doesn’t care to find out if his bones are as soft as those Italians. It’s such a bad tell. Or at least it would be if Illya left people alive to tell about it. Napoleon assumes he doesn’t.

He takes a breath. They’re talking about missions and business and that’s all this is, business. Napoleon knew that when he signed on. Business and ladies in those short, short dresses and of course the money, both legitimate and on the side.

But he hasn’t survived this long without having a backup plan. Napoleon Solo, if nothing else, is the king of backup plans.

“Here,” he says, taking the watch out from where he’s hidden it, as if it’s as precious as what’s half-hidden under his vest, “I got you something.”

Napoleon tosses the watch at Illya, and doesn’t even have to wonder if the Russian will catch it. Of course he will, like he caught that car back in the alley in East Berlin, the night they first met. The night where Napoleon decided it wouldn’t be right to shoot the crazy man chasing their car, because he’s built his career on works of art and he’s not about to go shooting one in the face, even if it is Russian.

As soon as Illya realizes what it is, he stops. Even with his back turned, Napoleon can feel the tension shift, shatter, break into the thousand pieces he had been worried Illya was going to break him into. Napoleon packs the last of his clothes, reveals the disk fully, and then turns to look at Illya.

“This does not change my mission,” Illya says, but his words are slow, measured, like he’s pouring out an expensive drink into a crystal glass. Then again, Napoleon hears expensive scotch every time Illya is saying something, even when it’s annoying.

Napoleon smiles an apologetic smile. If Illya was a woman, this is the part where he would go on and on about how he kept checking wrists to find the one watch, and come on, darling, can’t you let me go just this once? Women eat those things up. But Illya is not a woman, and so Napoleon says, “doesn’t change my mission either. Just thought you might feel better, having it back.”

Illya lets out a low hum, like he’s weighing Napoleon’s life against his father’s watch. Napoleon’s still close enough to his suitcase so that he can get his gun, if needed. After all the watch wasn’t supposed to be a miracle, just something to stall for time.

He had been hoping for a drink with the two of them–well mostly with Illya, but inviting Gabby made things feel more casual, and less like a conclusion to what had been building between them. Not that the Russian giant would have any idea, the way he looked at Gabby like she hung the moon. But Napoleon, no, he had felt it. So one casual drink between friends seemed like a good to end it.

Illya is across the room in two steps so fast that Napoleon doesn’t even have time to lunge for his gun. There’s one arm around him and the other is holding a gun to his head, and it would all be much more terrifying if the way Napoleon gasped didn’t fill his nose with Illya’s scent, and if the arm around him didn’t remind Napoleon of the other time he had been in this position, back pressed up against Illya’s muscular chest.

At least this time they weren’t in a restroom.

“My mission,” Illya grits out, “is to get the disk. And to kill you, if necessary.

Napoleon tries to look behind himself at Illya, but all he can see is the barrell of the gun, so he speaks to that. “And is it necessary to kill me?” He shifts his weight around, trying to make it so he has his weight evenly distributed on both feet. Illya’s arm moves to tighten its grip, and it’s a real shame, Napoleon thinks, that he isn’t in the place to really enjoy the sensation.

In one fluid motion Illya spins Napoleon around, and he stumbles back until the backs of his thighs touch the edge of the bed. He’s got the gun to Napoleon’s head, and Napoleon nearly goes cross-eyed to see if Illya’s hand is trembling or not. It is, but very slightly.

“I don’t see this ending without one of us dying, Cowboy,” Illya says finally. “And as of now I look to be the one living through this.”

Napoleon can still feel the places where Illya’s giant hands were moments ago, warm and tingly and slowly fading away. He checks Illya’s hands one more time, and they’re not even moving now as they hold the gun, so either Illya has calmed or he’s reached some sort of psycho plateau, so that’s he’s back to normal.

And then it hits him. Napoleon blinks, looks away from the gun, running the plan in his head again and again to make sure he’s got it right, that no move will backfire. But it’s perfect. “What if I told you,” Napoleon says slowly, “that I just came up with a plan that would let us both keep our lives and our jobs?”

Illya moves slightly, and Napoleon follows the barrel of the gun so that now Illya is between him and the bed. It takes Illya all of two seconds to find the gun, and he takes it. Before Napoleon can argue, Illya says, “you talk. I listen. I keep upper hand.”

“Fine,” Napoleon agrees, “just fine.”

He explains.

“That is a good plan,” Illya admits, as if he can’t quite believe those words just left his mouth directed at that American. He lowers his gun. “I could kiss you, Cowboy.”

And he knows it’s an expression, one he’s not exactly sure how Illya picked up. And he knows the law back home, and what trouble someone like him could get in doing something like this with someone who wasn’t down. But he also knows his own silver tongue, and if he could talk his way out of his own death, Napoleon Solo could talk his way out of this.

“You could, you know.” Napoleon smiles at Illya, putting everything he has into that one smile. Smiles are all about mental intent, and so Napoleon packs every dark daydream and twisted thought he’s had about the giant Russian KGB agent who almost choked him out in a bathroom behind his smile and hopes for the best.

“Is that so,” Illya drawls, and at first he doesn’t sound convinced, seeming to be waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“That’s what I said.” Napoleon doesn’t step back, but he doesn’t step forward either. He has the feeling that he’s not the one leading this dance.

Illya lifts a hand of Napoleon’s cheek, and for a moment Napoleon wonders if he’ll end up that one man, paralyzed in front of his locker for twenty minutes. But no, all Illya does is tilt Napoleon’s head to the side as if he’s looking for something. “You can never tell with Americans,” he says, as if mostly to himself.

He wonders if Illya is waiting for a reaction, a revulsion, and Napoleon doesn’t even need his training to not give out any sort of indication of fear. And if he looks shocked, well, it’s only because, “I could say the same about you. I got the feeling you only had eyes for your fiance.” And really, who wouldn’t look at Gabby that way? No red-blooded man could help it.

“Not my fiance,” Illya replies. He turns Napoleon’s head back the other way. It’s strange, but as long as Illya keeps touching him at all, Napoleon won’t complain. “But she is very beautiful. You are,”

“Beautiful?” Napoleon butts in, waggling his eyebrows, and gets a slight tap on the cheek. Compared to what he knows Illya’s hands can do, it’s nothing.

“You are something,” Illya says, before muttering something in Russian that Napoleon can’t quite catch. Slowly, he moves his hand from Napoleon’s jaw to the back of his head, carding those long fingers through his hair.

Napoleon leans into the touch, because if they’re really going to do this he’s going to give it his all before they have to come to terms with the Berlin Wall between them. “I said you could kiss me,” Napoleon repeats.

“I know,” Illya says. He’s looking back past Napoleon, at the space where his hand is touching Napoleon’s head, his hair. “Taking my time.”

So Napoleon stands there for a while, letting Illya half-pet him, and trying not to think about what either of their superiors would say if they walked in on this. But then again, it’s not as bad as it could be, until Illya is pulling Napoleon’s face closer and kissing him on the mouth, and then it’s as bad as it could be.

The kiss catches him off guard; he can’t remember the last time he’s had to strain to reach a lover’s lips, even when they were other men. But Napoleon goes with it, doesn’t have a choice because Illya still hasn’t let go of his head, won’t let him pull away. He tastes like clean water and peppermint and Napoleon wants to ask if he kissed Gabby the same way.

But then Illya’s tongue is at his lips and all Napoleon can think about is tilting his head back, opening his mouth and kissing Illya back. The rooms seems to spin around him and he reaches out for balance, hands finding Illya’s chest and fisting his shirt. It’s almost too-violent of a motion for the saccharine kisses they’re sharing, but when Illya nips at Napoleon’s bottom lip just slightly, he knows it’s alright.

“I thought you said just a kiss,” Illya says. He’s close enough still where Napoleon can feel Illya’s lips moving to make each word against his own lips.

Napoleon kisses Illya back just because he can, because he knows he’ll never get a chance to again. “I said you could kiss me.” He moves one hand from Illya’s front to down around his side, resting at the small of Illya’s back. With their bodies flush, Napoleon adds, “never said you had to stop there.”

“Are you sure,” Illya asks between kisses, “that you know what you’re asking for?”

“What?” Napoleon pulls back a little farther so that he can raise an eyebrow at Illya. “Think you’re going to break me like you did those Italians? I can take anything you can dish out.”

Illya smirks. “Is that so, Cowboy?”

“You know it, Peril.”

Without a warning, Illya moves them both around and throws Napoleon to the bed. He lands with a thud and can hear the bed springs creak, can see the way his fall rattled the room all the way up to the crystal chandelier. Napoleon fights his instincts, his training, and keeps his body language open. He leans back on his elbows, chest up and legs spread because there is no way he is backing down from this challenge.

“That all you got?” he asks. Illya looks at him, then his suitcase, and Napoleon gets it. “Blue bag,” he offers helpfully, and then watches as Illya finds the bag, and then the Vaseline in the bag. “Once a boy scout, always a boy scout,” Napoleon explains with a shrug.

But then Illya is on him again, on top of him, and muttering about how, “you talk too much,” before shoving his tongue back in Napoleon’s mouth. Napoleon clings at Illya, hips canting up, trying to thrust against whatever part of the giant Russian is closest. Illya gets a leg in between Napoleon’s and it’s heaven until it’s not enough anymore.

“Clothes,” Napoleon gasps, because Illya is nothing like the woman at the front desk who was so eager to get out of her dress. “Come on, hey,” Napoleon says, trying to get Illya’s attention before Illya just leans his head over and bites Napoleon on the neck, hard.

“You talk, I bite.”

And it’s meant as a threat, of course it is, because what is Illya if he isn’t the living embodiment of a threat? But Napoleon’s self-preservation instincts don’t extend to the bedroom, and so he has no trouble wiggling against Illya and saying, “but what if I like that?”

More Russian, generic curses now that Napoleon can still follow. Illya pulls back to grab at Napoleon’s vest, undoing some buttons but mostly popping them off. “Let me,” Napoleon says, sitting up and batting Illya’s hands away from the sartorial crime he was about to commit on Napoleon’s shirt. Instead, Illya moves down to take off Napoleon’s socks and shoes, and yeah, okay, he could get behind this.

“You look good down there,” Napoleon quips, haphazardly folding the shirt up before tossing it off the side of the bed.

His last sock is barely off before Illya shoots back, “not on your life, Cowboy.” But he doesn’t sound particularly upset, and before he comes back up he pulls his shirt off like one of those European models and if Napoleon wasn’t hard before, he is now.

Illya is back up, over Napoleon, and biting at the other side of his neck. “Was wondering when you’d come back and join me,” Napoleon says, trying to keep the banter light. But the breathy tone in his voice and the needy way his hips keep moving up and down negates all efforts.

“We need to be quiet,” Illya says, dragging one hand down Napoleon’s chest to start work undoing his trousers.

“Do you still have my room bugged?” Napoleon asks, words catching as Illya finally palms his hard cock through the fabric of his trousers. Illya doesn’t answer, but with the way he’s pulling down Napoleon’s trousers, Napoleon doesn’t find that he cares.

What he does care about is the fact that he’s the only one who seems to be losing any clothing in this exchange. But when he brings it up, Illya says something about keeping the upper hand and then is tugging down Napoleon’s boxers so that he can wrap a hand around Napoleon’s cock.

Napoleon opens his mouth, but no words come out. It’s too everything: too slow, too dry, too good, and he throws his head back too wantonly to be ashamed at his hyperbolic reaction to the barest of touches. But this is real, it’s finally happening and Napoleon’s too excited to focus on acting like he doesn’t care, like it’s not affecting him.

“There we go,” Illya says, his eyes focused on the hand that’s around Napoleon’s cock. “Finally found a way to shut you up.” And when Napoleon opens his mouth to protest, Illya just shoves two of those fingers into his mouth and demands, “suck.”

Napoleon sucks on Illya’s fingers as if he were sucking on his cock, lewd and wet and with plenty of attention to the tips of his fingers, the sensitive pads and the places where short nails meet rough skin. He closes his eyes, trying to focus on the sensations like they’re a fine wine, the rarest vintage.

Illya suddenly pulls his fingers from Napoleon’s mouth, and the pop sound reverberates through the room. He spreads Napoleon’s legs a little wider, so that he can reach down and touch Napoleon’s hole with his now-wet fingers. “You want more?” he asks. “Or do you want to come from my hand alone?”

The answer is a resounding, “more,” because there is no way Napoleon is turning down any part of what’s on the table right now. And at first it seems to be the wrong answer, because Illya hands are gone. But then Napoleon realizes that Illya’s taken out the Vaseline from his pocket and he tries to readjust himself accordingly.

He grabs a pillow and has it almost where he wants it, under his hips, when Illya asks, “do this often?”

Illya has Vaseline between his fingers and is rubbing it between them, warming it up, and for a moment Napoleon can’t breath. “I could ask the same thing about you,” Napoleon replies, deflecting instead of answering, as if his sexual history is classified information.

He’s pulling in his knees a little closer to his chest when one of Illya’s hands comes down on his knee, holding him, while the other reaches down back to where it had been before, pushing and massaging at his entrance. Napoleon wants to ask if Illya does actually know what he’s doing, but then there’s one finger inside him and he’s yelping from the unexpectedness of it.

“So you do this, but not often,” Illya says, as if he’s just found out some great secret. He thrusts his finger in and out of Napoleon slowly, eyes never leaving Napoleon’s face.

As much as he wants this, he doesn’t want that kind of eye contact, and so Napoleon keeps his eyes focused on Illya’s giant, muscular arm. But then one finger becomes two and Napoleon closes his eyes, urging his body to remember that this will feel good, so good, soon. Just not now.

Illya stops moving, his fingers just outside of Napoleon’s body, and Napoleon opens his eyes. “Need a belt to bite down on?” Illya asks, and Napoleon can tell he’s only half-joking. But he can also see the tent in Illya’s trousers, and the way almost all the color in his eyes have been replaced with the dark of his pupils, and almost can’t wrap his mind around that that’s all for him.

“I’ll be fine,” Napoleon says, words tight. “Just don’t stop.”

It gets better after that, and then Illya gets more Vaseline out of the plastic tub and it’s much better. Napoleon’s angling his hips to meet each of Illya’s thrusts, and by the time he’s finger fucking Napoleon in earnest Napoleon has three fingers in his ass and his cock is leaking from it.

Without a word, Illya pulls his hand away. He wipes it off slightly on the bedspread near where he’s been kneeling, before reaching up to start undoing his trousers just enough to pull his cock out. It shouldn’t be surprising, but Napoleon’s mouth still falls open slightly when he sees that Illya’s cock is just as tall and thick as the rest of him.  
“Still good?” Illya asks, dipping his fingers into the Vaseline to coat his cock. He gives it a few, languid strokes and Napoleon watches.

“Just rethinking the belt,” he replies, both desperate and terrified at the thought of having that in him. But Illya leans over and is kissing him again, and it’s a good distraction up until he feels the blunt head at his hole and then Illya is sucking on his bottom lip and pushing in further, slowly but steadily, until he’s fully inside Napoleon and kissing after each small gasp that leaves Napoleon’s mouth.

Illya holds Napoleon’s hip with his slick hand, and the other goes to cup his face. He swipes a thumb over Napoleon’s cheekbone like Napoleon is something precious, something he desperately doesn’t want to break. Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter, it can’t matter. Not in this world.

So Napoleon wraps his legs around Illya’s body as best he can, still a little sore from yesterday but that pain is so distant compared to the sensation of being so entirely filled. “Come on,” he urges, and only then does Illya pull out just enough to slowly move back in. “Come on,” Napoleon repeats, because he doesn’t want their only time to be like this, like Napoleon is made of glass.

“Do you know what you’re asking for?” Illya asks, not stopping his slow thrusts.

Napoleon makes a noise that is very close to a whine and digs his heels into Illya’s back. “Doesn’t matter. I want it.”

Illya makes a noise in the back of his throat before he pulls out of Napoleon and manhandles the other man onto his front. And Napoleon lets him, of course he does, even though he knows if Illya really wanted him in this position, he couldn’t put up a fight if he wanted to. But now that he’s here, with this face in the pillow and his ass in the air, Napoleon can’t think of a better place to be.

He can’t see back there, but he can feel Illya tracing a hand over his ass, dipping one thumb down his crack to touch his hole, and for a moment Napoleon isn’t sure this new position is going to make anything better. Then Illya shoves in without warning, and Napoleon groans.

“I told you, you need to be quiet,” Illya says, but he doesn’t stop thrusting. He has both hands on Napoleon’s hips, holding him down and fucking him so hard that Napoleon’s toes curl and he’s grinding his teeth just to try and stay quiet. But it doesn’t work, frantic sounds keep finding ways to escape his mouth because every thrust is grazing his prostate and it all feels so good.

And then Napoleon can’t breath. There’s a hand over his mouth, his nose, and Illya is saying, “stay quiet or I will make you quiet myself.”

Napoleon groans, can’t get enough air and then moans from the sensation of that as well, the sound muffled by Illya’s palm. His body starts to feel fuzzy and Napoleon closes his eyes to enjoy it—he knows what passing out feels like and this is nowhere near that, too close to the good side of everything and even if it wasn’t, it didn’t matter with how Illya is fucking him.

“So good,” Illya mutters, and then repeats it in Russian. “You take it so good.”

There are a few more other compliments, random phrases, but Napoleon can only focus on so many things at one time and right now translating a foreign language is at the bottom of his list. From behind Illya’s hand Napoleon moans out, “touch me,” and then repeats it again when Illya moves his hand away.

Illya presses at the back of Napoleon’s head and shoves him down into the pillow before reaching down and stroking his cock in time with his thrusts. Napoleon’s hands grasp at the sheets and his moans are nonsensical slurs that he’s glad only the pillow can hear. He comes after a few more strokes from Illya’s skilled hand, and his entire body shakes from it.

Napoleon knows Illya’s close. He can feel Illya’s thrusts growing erratic, until Illya suddenly pulls his cock out of Napoleon. Napoleon looks back just in time to see Illya stroking himself and coming over his back in hot spurts.

When it’s over, Napoleon collapses on the bed, and Illya falls down beside him. It’s a big bed, and there’s at least six inches of space between them. Napoleon shifts his head so that he can look at Illya and announces, “I need a shower.”

Illya turns to look at him with an expression of pride. “You do,” he agrees. “Why don’t you shower while I destroy the disk?”

“Nice try, Peril.” Napoleon chuckles, tries to sit up further, and then winces. “Why don’t, instead, you come join me in the shower and we can burn that thing after?”

They both look down to the end of the bed. The disk in its blue case isn’t on the bed anymore; they must have knocked it off earlier. “And why would I do that?”

Napoleon manages to sit up. He runs a hand through his hair even though it’s a lost cause, and he can feel Illya’s come drying on his back. “Because you’ve decided not to kill me? Because the disk is a moot point?” Napoleon gives Illya another smile. “Because you’ve had your fingers in my mouth and you know what I can do with my tongue?” Because if this is all they get, Napoleon thinks, he wants to make the most of it.

Illya makes a conceding face, but gestures toward the bathroom. “After you.”


End file.
